Aquarium

by Steven Henry

  Erin hung up but didn’t put her phone away. She dialed the number of the burner phone Carlyle was currently using.

  “Evening, darling,” Carlyle answered. She heard the normal background noise of the Corner filtering through the phone.

  “Evening,” she said. “Sorry to bother you.”

  “You’re never a bother. What is it you’re needing?” He’d picked up on her tone and got straight to business.

  “I need to get in touch with Corky.”

  “Well, you’re in luck. The lad’s right here, practically at my elbow. He’s chatting up my waitress and keeping her from doing her job. Half a moment.” There was a brief pause, then Erin heard his voice more faintly. “Corky, lad, get your hands off Caitlin and come over here. I’ve a lass who’s wanting to bend your ear.”

  After a moment, Corky’s bright, cheerful voice came on the line. “Evening, love.”

  “Corky, you don’t even know who this is,” she said. “Love seems a bit optimistic, even for you.”

  “Erin! I thought it might be you. Finally decided to move on from this tired old lad and trade in for a superior model?”

  “Not exactly. I need a favor. It’s short notice.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I need a car.”

  “Easiest thing in the world, love. I know a lad. Any particular make or model?”

  “Corky! I don’t want you to steal one!”

  There was a momentary silence. “I’m not precisely certain why you’re calling me, in that case,” he said.

  “I’m going to be in Stamford, Connecticut in a half hour or so. You’ve got connections in the transport business. I need a ride back to Manhattan, ASAP.”

  “Grand,” Corky said without a moment’s hesitation. “I know just the lad. Where can he find you?”

  “Train station. It’ll be me, Vic, Rolf, and one other guy, so make sure it’s a big car.”

  “No fear, love. I’ll just need to make a quick call to the Teamsters Local 145. I’m on good terms with those lads. They’ll send someone.”

  “Will I need cash in hand?”

  “Don’t worry your head, love. I’ll handle the details. I do business with these lads all the time. They’ll be having someone coming down this way regardless. I’ll just ask them to make a bit of extra room. It may not be the most comfortable ride, but they’ll get you here swift, safe, and sound.”

  “How will I know your guy?” she asked.

  “He’ll drop my name. Enjoy your ride, love.”

  “I owe you one, Corky.”

  “Just give me a kiss when I see you again and we’ll call it even.”

  He hung up before Erin could object. She stared at her phone and shook her head. Corky was never going to change.

  She rejoined Vic and Rolf in their vigil over the prisoner. Vic raised an eyebrow.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “I’ve organized a ride back to New York.”

  “Connecticut State Patrol?” he guessed.

  “Not exactly.”

  “So, who are we looking for?” Vic glanced around the train station. The platform was basically empty.

  “He’ll know us,” Erin said with more confidence than she felt.

  “I’d like to make the telephone call to which I’m legally entitled,” Stone said.

  “You’ll get your phone call,” Erin said. “You haven’t been processed yet.”

  “Processed, as in bologna?” Stone suggested. “I feel I’m being treated rather like lunch meat at present.”

  “Exactly like,” Vic said. Then his attention sharpened. “Erin! Eyes right!”

  Erin spun, reflexively dropping a hand to her Glock. Vic’s instincts were good. The guy who was walking toward them looked like trouble. Six-foot two and probably weighing close to two-fifty, he had a handlebar mustache and hard, cold eyes. She looked at his hands, which were in plain view and empty, but she noted a jailhouse tattoo of a spider web on the back of his wrist and the sort of scars a man got on his knuckles from a lifetime of brawling.

  “That’s close enough, buddy,” Vic said when the guy was about twenty feet away. Vic’s hand, like Erin’s, was resting on the grip of his sidearm. The law-enforcement principle at work was the infamous twenty-one-foot rule; if someone was within that distance and armed, even if it was just a knife, that person was considered an imminent threat.

  “Easy, cowboy,” the big guy said, putting up a hand. “I’m lookin’ for Erin. Corky sent me.”

  Erin relaxed and let go of her pistol. Vic didn’t.

  “I’m Erin,” she said. “Who’re you?”

  “Wayne.” He suddenly smiled, which made him look almost pleasant except for a large gap where one of his front teeth should have been. He took a couple steps nearer and extended one of his big, meaty hands.

  “It’s okay, Vic,” Erin said. She advanced and took his hand. “Thanks for coming, Wayne. You know the score?”

  “Yeah. I gotta take you and the rest of your crew downtown. It’s cool, I got a delivery to make on the Lower East Side. Got my truck thataway.” He jerked his head in the direction of the exit.

  “Let’s go,” she said. Wayne started walking and the rest of them followed, Vic steering the reluctant Stone by the elbow.

  “Erin, who is this guy?” Vic asked in an undertone.

  “Wayne,” she replied quietly, as if that explained things.

  “He said he works for Corky,” Vic went on. “Is that who I think it is?”

  “Probably.”

  Vic rolled his eyes. “This day just gets better and better. You just keep an eye on him.”

  Wayne led them out of the station to the parking lot. A big rig sat there, immense and impressive. It was painted dark, glossy green with red flames on the sides of the hood. The big man ambled to the cab.

  “That’s our ride?” Erin asked.

  “Yep. This is the Beast.” Wayne laid an affectionate hand on the truck. He grinned, like a horse breeder showing off a prize stallion. “Got a brand-new Detroit Diesel DD16 under the hood. Displaces fifteen-point-six liters, rocks six hundred horses at eighteen hundred RPM.”

  “What kind of torque do you get?” Vic asked, interested in spite of himself. He liked engines.

  “Two thousand and fifty pound-feet at nine seventy-five RPM,” Wayne said proudly. “You name it, the Beast can pull it. This baby can yank the fillings right outta your teeth.”

  “That might be a little overkill for us,” Erin said. But she looked doubtfully at the cab. There was no way he’d be able to make room for all of them up there.

  Wayne followed her look. “Sorry, but only one of you gets to ride up front. I got some space in back. I’m not fully loaded for this trip. It’ll be a little bumpy, but it ain’t a long run down to the Big Apple. Good thing I’m not carrying meat this trip.”

  “Why’s that?” she asked.

  “Cause then it’d be a refrigerator trailer,” Wayne said and guffawed. “Have to thaw you out once we got there.”

  “What’s the load today?” Erin asked.

  Wayne’s smile compressed into a thin line. “Candy bars,” he said in a flat voice.

  “Candy bars,” Erin repeated.

  “Gotta keep those vending machines stocked,” Wayne said. “So, who’s up front?”

  “I’d like to volunteer,” Stone said.

  “Shut up,” Vic told him. “You better go up front, Erin.”

  “How unusually chivalrous of you,” she said.

  “Nah, I just want to keep an eye on this asshole.” Vic elbowed Stone, who stumbled sideways and gave him an indignant look.

  “I’ll be adding assault to your growing list of misconduct violations,” Stone said.

  “You know more about assault than I do,” Vic growled. “If I assault you, you’ll damn well know it. You’ll be walking funny for a week.”

  “Lay off, Vic,” Erin said. “You want to ride in back, I’m not going to argue. What about R
olf?”

  “That Rolf?” Wayne asked, indicating the K-9.

  “Yeah.”

  “He can ride with us,” Wayne said. “Between the seats. I like dogs.” He offered his hand to the Shepherd, who gave it a professional sniff.

  The trucker opened the sliding door on the back of the semi-trailer, revealing an interior about two-thirds full of cardboard boxes. They were labeled with the logos of the Mars candy company.

  “You going to be okay in here?” Erin asked.

  “Hey, my first apartment in the big city was less comfy than this,” Vic said. “Had less furniture, too. Go on, jackass. Up you go.”

  “It’s not easy to climb with my hands chained together,” Stone complained.

  Vic shrugged. Then he put his hands under Stone’s armpits and hoisted the other man like a sack of potatoes, depositing him in the truck’s interior. Stone was big, but Vic hefted him without much apparent effort. He climbed up after the prisoner.

  “Don’t let him get away with anything,” Erin said quietly. “We won’t be able to help you back there. Maybe I should keep your gun.”

  It was a sensible precaution. Even if Stone’s hands had been free, Vic could easily overpower him in an unarmed fight. But if the prisoner got his hands on Vic’s pistol, there could be trouble. It was the same reasoning that led cops to lock up their guns before going into lockup areas or interrogation rooms.

  “Yeah, sure,” Vic said. “Why not?” He unbuckled his Sig-Sauer automatic from his waist, then bent down and took out his backup ankle piece and handed both pistols to Erin.

  Wayne watched the whole thing, still smiling. “You guys good?” he asked. “Don’t mean to be pushy, but I got a schedule to keep.”

  Vic gave him a thumbs-up. Wayne hopped up on the trailer with surprising agility for a guy his size, grabbed the pull-strap on the bottom of the trailer door, and slammed it shut, leaving Vic and Stone locked inside. Then Wayne, Erin, and Rolf got into the cab. Wayne turned the ignition. The Beast’s engine roared to life and the big rig started rolling.

  “So, you know Corky?” Erin asked.

  “Everybody knows Corky,” Wayne said. “He didn’t mention you guys was cops.”

  “Must’ve slipped his mind,” she said. “Forget about it.”

  “Nah, he said you was associated with Cars,” Wayne persisted. “And Corky ain’t stupid. He pretends he’s not payin’ attention, but he hears everything and he don’t forget nothin.’”

  “Ask around,” she said. “Any of Corky’s people can tell you anything you need to know about me.”

  Wayne nodded, satisfied. “Nice dog you got there. He a cop, too?”

  “Yeah, he’s a K-9.”

  “Narc dog?”

  “No, he does search-and-rescue, suspect apprehension, and explosives sniffing.”

  “I gotta get me a dog,” Wayne said. “A lot of the guys who do long-haul gigs got one. Makes it less lonesome on the road. What breed you recommend?”

  “German Shepherd,” she said, not needing to think about it.

  “I’ll look into it,” he said. “You know anybody gots a puppy they wanna get rid of?”

  Erin smiled. That was how Corky and Carlyle’s world worked. It was all networking, going off people you knew. Even when it came to getting a new dog. “I’ll ask around,” she said. “But Rolf came all the way from Germany. I think you might want something more local, and maybe a little less expensive.”

  “How much he run you?”

  “The Department paid, but it was a few grand.”

  He whistled, impressed.

  They drove for a few minutes in silence. Wayne, an experienced truck driver, knew exactly what he was doing behind the wheel. He handled the Beast with an easy grace, coaxing the truck onto the freeway as easily as if it had been a station wagon.

  “You didn’t ask why a couple of cops needed a lift to Manhattan with a guy in cuffs,” Erin said at last.

  “Ain’t my business,” Wayne said. “I don’t need to know nothin.’”

  Erin found his answer weirdly refreshing. She was sick and tired of her activities being watched by everyone. At least when you were dealing with criminals, they didn’t tend to be nosy. Too much curiosity was a sign a guy might be working for the police. Wayne wanted her to know he was a stand-up guy who kept his nose in his own business. Even though she was the police.

  She had the rest of the drive home to wonder why that made her feel better about the guy who was helping her out.

  Chapter 13

  The drive was going smoothly, except for Wayne’s fondness for country-western music. Erin was more of a pop rock girl, though she wouldn’t admit to liking some of the singers she secretly enjoyed. She endured it for as long as she could. Then, right at the New York state line, she couldn’t resist anymore.

  “Hey, Wayne?” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “You ever heard what happens when you play a country-western song backwards?”

  “Yeah, I heard that one,” he said. “You get your house back, you get your truck back, your wife comes home, your dog comes back to life, and they let you out of jail.”

  “You’re not laughing.”

  “It’s not funny.” Then he glanced in his rearview mirror. “Ah, crap.”

  “What?” Erin checked the mirror on her side. She saw flashing lights framing the sleek, midnight-blue shape of a New York State Patrol cruiser. It was coming up on their tail, clearly targeting the Beast.

  “Registration in the glove box?” she asked.

  Wayne hesitated. “Yeah, but be careful when you open it,” he said. Then, with a resigned sigh, he pulled over to the shoulder and slowed to a stop.

  Erin gingerly popped the catch on the glove compartment and saw why Wayne was concerned. A gigantic revolver, a Smith & Wesson .44, lay there, black and menacing, like a waiting rattlesnake.

  “Don’t suppose you’ve got a permit for that?” she asked.

  “I got a record,” Wayne said, which answered the question. A convicted felon was about as likely to obtain a legal permit for a handgun in New York as Erin was to find a winning lottery ticket in the gutter.

  The State Patrol car pulled over behind them. The trooper got out, squared his broad-brimmed hat on his head, and started toward them.

  Now Erin had a dilemma, and she had until the other cop got to the cab to decide what to do. She was riding in a truck with an ex-con with an illegal firearm and God only knew what in the trailer, along with her fellow detective and a man in handcuffs. If she took the high road, Wayne would go to jail and Erin would have some explaining to do. She’d also have a big problem with Corky and the O’Malleys. But if she covered for Wayne, she’d gain points with the O’Malleys and maybe avoid other legal entanglements.

  The only downside was, she’d have to turn a blind eye to at least one obvious crime.

  The trooper was only a few feet away now. The man adjusted his belt, keeping one hand casually in the vicinity of his sidearm. The New York State Police carried Glock 37s, the .45-caliber big brother of Erin’s own Glock 19. Those could blow a sizable hole in just about anything.

  “If he asks anything awkward, I got this,” she said to Wayne.

  He nodded, keeping his hands above the steering wheel. This obviously wasn’t his first time being pulled over.

  The trooper rapped on the door with his knuckles and motioned for Wayne to roll down the window. The big guy obeyed.

  “Evening, Trooper,” Wayne said.

  “You know why I pulled you over, sir?” the trooper asked.

  Wayne shrugged. “Dunno, sir. I’m not pulling too much weight, I know that for sure. My tags are up to date.”

  “What’re you carrying?”

  “Candy bars.”

  “Got the manifest there?”

  “Sure thing, man.” Wayne took out a packet of papers and passed it through the window.

  “License and registration,” the trooper added.

  Eri
n handed it over to Wayne, who gave it to the trooper. She carefully closed the glove compartment, leaving the .44 magnum inside.

  There was a pause while the trooper scanned the documents. “Wayne McClernand,” he said. “Anything I ought to know about you, Wayne?”

  Wayne shrugged again. “What’s there to say?”

  “If I open up the back, am I going to find anything that’s not on this?” the trooper asked, pointing to the manifest.

  “Dunno why you’d think that,” Wayne said.

  “Heard there might be a load of smokes coming through here,” the trooper said. “To get around state taxes. You wouldn’t have any cartons of cigs in there, Wayne, that didn’t make it onto the manifest, now would you?”

  Wayne shrugged again. “Hey, I just pull the freight. I don’t load the boxes. Says on the manifest it’s candy, I don’t argue, and I don’t open the boxes. I’m just doin’ my job, man.”

  “And I’m doing mine,” the trooper said. “Please step out of the vehicle. You too, ma’am.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Erin said.

  “I said, out of the vehicle, please,” the trooper repeated. He stepped back half a pace. Something about her and Wayne triggered his instincts. He was ready for trouble.

  “No problem, man,” Wayne said. He opened his door and jumped heavily down to the pavement. He was several inches taller and probably sixty pounds heavier than the trooper, who wasn’t a little guy.

  “Whoa, what you got in there?” the trooper said. He’d caught sight of Rolf through the open door.

  “Police K-9, sir,” Erin said. “I’m a detective with the NYPD.”

  Whatever the trooper had been expecting, it wasn’t that. He blinked. “Come again?”

  “Detective O’Reilly,” she said. “NYPD Major Crimes. I’ve got my ID here. I’m going to get it out.”

  “Slow and easy,” the trooper said. His hand was now on his Glock.

  Wayne, standing next to the Beast’s idling engine, said nothing. He seemed more curious than apprehensive now.

  Erin told Rolf, “Bleib.”

  Rolf stayed put. He cocked his head at the state trooper.

  Erin worked her way past her dog to the driver’s side so she wouldn’t be out of the trooper’s line of sight and climbed out of the cab. She produced her shield and showed it to the trooper. He bent forward to examine it.